They can't take that away from you.
"You shouldn't take shit like that."
The voice comes from my left—low and rough, with an edge that suggests the speaker has seen things most people only have nightmares about.
I turn to find an Alpha sitting on the stool next to where I'm standing, a half-empty pint of what looks like a dark stout in front of him. He's dressed casually—dark jeans that fit him in that way that suggests either really good genetics or a lot of time at the gym, a black Henley that stretches across broad shoulders, and a chest that's clearly muscular, combat boots that have seen better days, and probably have stories to tell.
But it's the details that catch my attention and hold it.
His hair is dark—almost black in the dim lighting of the bar—but threaded through with these incredible silver-grey streaks that catch the twinkling fairy lights and seem to glow. It's not the grey of aging, but something more striking, more intentional-looking. The kind of coloring that makes you do a double-take. His hair is slightly longer on top, styled in a casual way that suggests he ran his fingers through it and called it good.
His eyes though—his eyes are what really get me. They're an unusual shade of green, almost olive with flecks of gold that seem to shift and catch the light depending on the angle. Deep-set and intense, framed by dark lashes that seem unfair on someone so masculine. There's wisdom in those eyes. And pain. The kind that comes from seeing things you can't unsee.
There's a hardness to his features too—like life has carved away anything soft, leaving behind sharp angles and carefully controlled expressions. High cheekbones, a strong jaw with the shadow of stubble, a mouth that looks like it doesn't smile often, but probably should. A small scar cuts through his left eyebrow, and there's another one along his jawline.
Dog tags hang from his neck, resting against the black fabric of his Henley. The metal glints in the light—military issue, worn from years of use.Veteran. Definitely military. Everything about him screams it—the bearing, the way he sits with his back to the wall and eyes on all the exits, the controlled way he moves.
But there's also a ridiculous Santa hat perched on his head—red and white and topped with a fluffy white pom-pom that bounces slightly when he moves.
It's completely absurd against his serious demeanor, like putting a party hat on a German Shepherd. The contrast makes him look less intimidating and more...approachable.
Like a guard dog wearing a party hat—still dangerous, but maybe he won't bite.
Okay, Rev. He's hot. He's very hot. Focus on not making a fool of yourself.
I try to smile, aiming for my usual brightness, but I can feel how it doesn't reach my eyes.
"It's fine. Just part of the job, you know?"
He pauses mid-drink, lowering his pint to the bar. Those olive-green eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes me feel seen in a way that's both comforting and terrifying.
He can see right through me. Through the smile, through the costume, through the act. One look and he knows I'm not fine.
"It's not easy," I admit, my voice quieter now, "when it's one of your ex's pack members talking shit."
Why did I tell him that?
Why am I being honest with a complete stranger?
What is it about this Alpha that makes me want to tell the truth?
His expression darkens, a storm cloud passing over those unusual eyes. He looks back at the table where Jasper and his friends are getting louder, their laughter more obnoxious.
"Was it the one trying to call you fat?"
I can't help the smirk that tugs at my mouth despite everything.
"Thick thighs save lives. But if a size six is fat, then fuck the world, because I swear the average size is like twelve to fourteen these days."
Something shifts in his expression—approval, or respect. He checks me out then, his gaze traveling down and back up in a way that should feel objectifying but somehow doesn't.
It feels... appreciative. Genuine.
"It shouldn't even matter what size you are," he mutters, his voice dropping lower. "But for the record? You're hot. And curvy thighs that can lock a man in a headlock are more than fine by me."
Oh. Oh my. Is the hot veteran Santa flirting with me? Should I flirt back? Is this appropriate when I'm working? Do I care?
I smile—genuinely this time, the expression reaching my eyes.
